


More than Anything

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 13:12:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11336223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Mulder muses on what he really wants out of life.





	More than Anything

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

More than Anything by Merri-Todd Webster

DISCLAIMER: All hail Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox. Sue not the poor in their poverty, for it will avail thee nothing.  
Summary and Comments: Mulder muses on what he really wants out of life.  
So look what happened after two weeks of new episodes! Anybody else notice that Scully has been wearing the same suit since *the movie*? Warning! Warning! Mention of m/f as well as m/m sex. Bi!Mulder is alive and well in Merri-Todd's fic. Thanks, as always, to Te and Amirin for encouragement of my perversity.

* * *

**********************  
More than Anything  
by Merri-Todd Webster  
(18 November 1998)  
**********************

What I want more than anything.

It's so sick.

You know, it's just typical of me. The two people I lust after--care about--more than anyone else in the world. They hate each other.

My partner. My enemy. And which is which?

She comes in every day wearing a dark suit and a frown. Her eyes look through me without seeing me. She does her job, the job they've assigned us, without complaining, at least without complaining in words. I take out my anger, my frustration, my love for her in words that slice and cut, and she says nothing, does nothing, except squint at me with that wrinkle in her forehead, that twist of her mouth.

I want to fuck her senseless. I want to make her scream.

He shows up when I least expect it, wearing black leather gloves, black leather jacket, black jeans. His eyes glitter at me from every corner. I never know where he'll be. I draw my gun, raise my fists, call him every dirty name I know, and he keeps eluding me, and he keeps coming back. He kissed me once and made me remember when he was my partner. He gave me something that he thought was the truth. He killed my father.

I want him to fuck me senseless. I want him to make me scream.

I have the biggest porno collection outside the Vatican. My videos are gathering dust because I only have one fantasy now. I re-play it every night, over and over, until I can't come any more, until I can only fall asleep.

Me, Scully, and Krycek. In the same bed. All night.

Sick, isn't it? But I know that.

It'll never happen. If she ever sees him again, she'll probably shoot him. She's a better shot than I am. He loathes her with an acid hatred that won't even let him get near her to try to kill her. Each one is convinced that the other is the worst thing that ever happened to me.

I think they're both right.

But my cock doesn't know morality or even psychology. It only knows desire, and pleasure; it feeds on whatever images my fevered brain can conjure.

Images of Krycek watching as I bury my face in Scully's pussy. Images of watching Krycek as he rams into her from behind. Images of Scully watching as I suck Krycek's cock. Two of us touching, one of us watching, always watching...

Until if nothing else works, if orgasm and the consequent stupor elude me, images of myself between them, fucking and being fucked, simultaneously, and there is no Fox Mulder, no truth, no memories, and I can sleep for a few hours.

The dark suit with the white blouse underneath, and a faint hint of perfume.

The black leather jacket with the white shirt underneath, and the acrid tang of adrenalin.

His gun aimed at me, her gun aimed at him, my gun aimed at her because I won't let her shoot him--

I'd give my life for either of them. It'd be easier that way. We almost died in Antartica. We almost died in Russia.

Why can't we just die, and get it over with? Why do I have to keep wanting this thing that eats my insides, like a parasite, like cancer?

She's had cancer, lost her sister, lost her fertility, lost the child they made from her. He lost his arm, lost his protector, lost his position in the organization. Why am I still in one piece? Why doesn't anything touch me?

The softness of that red, red hair under my fingers. There was a time when she'd let me hold her. The heat of that hard thin body between me and the wall. I wanted to kill him, and we were both on the verge of coming. Two voices, both low and husky, two ripe, wet mouths.

I can't want this. But I do. My mind is a silver screen lit with a blue light. Four hands that touch my crumbling skin, two voices that penetrate my loneliness. Everything I want in one place. Touch me, please.

I want it to be over, more than anything. But it never will be.

Never all of me in the same place at once. Brutal with him because I dare not let him see the tenderness. Gentle with her because I dare not let her see the brutality.

Too many years of wanting. Being empty. My mind is my own best lover; I know exactly how to give myself what I want. How can any other human being live up to that? Could Alex's mouth on my cock possibly be as good as I've *imagined* it to be?

All I want is everything I want, right here, right now, it's raining and there's dust on everything in this damned apartment, who has time to clean, and I want them both to show up at my door with wine and roses and--

Fuck. Not gonna happen.

Me inside of her, and him inside of me. No waiting.

Him fucking her, taking her, opposites joined, and they're both looking at me. I'm the reason. I'm the sun they revolve around.

Yeah, right. I am one sick fuck.

But maybe after days and weeks of checking to make sure that some farmer with shit on his feet isn't using the shit to make bombs with, maybe I *deserve* to be a sick fuck. Maybe I'm entitled to want whatever I please, considering I can't have it anyway.

I'll go in tomorrow and she'll frown at me again. I don't know how much longer I can take that frown without kissing her till her lips bleed, smearing her lipstick like blood.

And I haven't seen Alex in weeks. How much longer till he shows up? Does he only come when he knows I'm not waiting for him?

My gun is right here. I could end it all, end the yearning. I've come close, before. Are they just waiting for me to get out of the way?

I thought I wanted the truth more than anything. But I think the truth I want is love. More than anything.

*********

end


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